


like a shadow

by glittercake



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Getting Together, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 10:13:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25847863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glittercake/pseuds/glittercake
Summary: For all his strength and bulk, he becomes fragile when she wraps her arms around his shoulders and kisses his forehead as they sit there in the euphoric afterglow of it. She knows now how he manages to make himself so small to the world sometimes. It's an inside thing; it's a question of vulnerability.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 13
Kudos: 192





	like a shadow

**Author's Note:**

> don't ask me why i am only now writing a fic for them.   
> better late than never, huh.

It's while she's on the run all by herself when Natasha realizes there's something intricately important missing from her. 

It's like another body should be beside hers. It's like she should look down and see another shadow on the asphalt, a scent, a voice.

A boyish grin, almost shy yet not at all, blonde hair falling just so against a sweat-damp forehead, sweeping lashes, and thunderous blue eyes. 

She remembers that one night still out looking for Barnes, just after D.C, that scrappy roadside motel that had only a single bed. And though nothing ever happened despite them sharing the bed, Natasha has been in close proximity with enough bodies to know what want feels like, to know what restraint feels like. And the way Steve held his body that night, carefully controlled, she can't forget. 

She can't help but imagine all the what-ifs. What if she'd turned around and faced him, what if she'd leaned in and tasted him again like that day in the mall. 

She never did get around to ask him what word he would have used, if not uncomfortable. Did he feel it too then? Is feverish curiosity the right word? Useless pining? Hunger? 

And so when the nights finally get too long, and the days unbearable, and when her mind will only ever focus on this one thing... on Steve goddamn Rogers.

That's the day she packs her shit up, buys one last bottle of hair dye, and sets out to find the rogue trio somewhere in the vast world and hopes that when she sees him, she'll find what it is she's been missing.

Hopefully, he'd been missing the same thing too.

There's a rental agency further west who recently rented to a couple of guys, a dude with a silver hand reported at McDonald's in Fort Collins, a selfie of a group of kids in Salt Lake City and the Falcon wearing a cap in the background. 

It's not so hard to track them down; they've never been masters of disguise.

Still, she keeps her distance when they finally shuffle tiredly into a diner in Idaho for breakfast. Sam's grown a beard and has thick-framed specs, Barnes now wears his hair in a bun and has traded all the leather for sweats. 

They blend in okay except for their bulk and the clear set of battle in their bodies. 

Rogers though... 

Her stomach does a hollow swoop when he enters, hunching in on himself to seem smaller than he is somehow- she's never really known how. But he has grown his hair out, long enough to tuck behind his ear, long enough to... 

She looks away briefly to discard the thought of sliding her fingers along his scalp and tugging. When she looks back, he's sat down beside Sam, and she gets a full view of his gorgeously tired face now unshaved, rugged, and his blue eyes hidden behind dollar store shades. 

Despite all the disguises applied, he's unmissable, hasn't quite mastered making himself disappear. Not like her, she's whatever the situation calls for, a mother taking the baby for a stroll, a businesswoman rushing to her next meeting, a lone blonde in the corner booth of a dingy diner on her fourth coffee. 

She feigns interest in the newspaper when Rogers glances her way, her cheek propped against her hand to hide her face. There's no real reason to hide, but this is what they do. They play these games, they dance around each other, outsmarting, outmaneuvering, pretending.

His eyes linger a while, and she remembers that intricately too. He'd look and look until she looked back, then promptly crawl back into his shell. Sometimes she'd let him stare as long as he wanted to, feeling how her body reacted and reached for his gaze. She feels it now too. 

She waits until they've ordered to make her move. 

The waitress brings her cheque, and she heads for the door, tilting her face just enough for the sun to cast a questionable light on her, just enough to make him wonder if it's really her. 

And like clockwork, she hears him excuse himself.

She's quick to duck around a corner, slink down a sidewalk, his footsteps following hard behind her. She swings up on a ledge and watches him pass below, follows him all along an alley until he stops where the street begins and throws his hands up in defeat. 

"Goddammit, Tasha," she hears him mumble and decides to drop down from her place in the rafters and onto his shoulders. 

Only, he's made of something different, she sometimes forgets, so he steps sideways and catches her instead. She's backed against a wall the moment her feet touch the ground—he's a soldier after all—and his hand wraps around her arm. 

"Well, hello to you too," she says, amused at his ever scorned look. Up close like this, his scent wraps around her like a blanket of familiarity. His grip loosens, muscles relaxing, and then he's fighting off a smile. 

"Miss me?" She says, a little breathless for no reason at all. Or perhaps for every reason she's ever known.

There's something longing and desperate and relieved playing across his face, but he nods. "I did," Steve says in that sure way of his. 

He doesn't let go of her just yet. Not until Sam comes skidding around the corner, worried and then promptly annoyed. On the phone to Barnes, he says, "Yeah, he's feeling up a blonde in the alley. All good."

Then Steve grins at her and she at him, and they're looking at each other like a found treasure, gleaming. 

They spend the day milling about town, catching up, buying supplies, having burritos by the river, and when night finally falls, they head back to a motel with faded pink and green wallpaper on the outskirts of town. 

Steve's still looking, and that's good, he watches her deeply, quietly, like he's trying to make this new Natasha **—** thinner, blonder, softer somehow **—** fit his memories of her. 

Barnes and Wilson are next door watching music t.v that blares through the walls while they wash up and dress down for the night. 

Eventually, they settle on the floor and crack open a few beers, his back against the bed, her body turned toward him, and it's quiet for a while between them. Her leg is stretched out and pressing against Steve's, their arms snug against each other's, and his head is tipped back against the bed. 

This time she guesses she's the one staring. His lashes are just so damn long, he's really something even in the unflattering, yellow motel lights. But he's tired, she can tell. 

"You're not made for this," she says and, without thinking, reaches up to swipe a dirty blonde strand of hair away from his eyebrow. 

His head rolls to her, "Neither are you." Then after a beat, "Why'd you come?" 

She shifts closer to rest their heads together. "Didn't want you to be alone," she quips, smiling. 

Steve snorts, takes a sip, "Now, where have I heard that before."

"Yeah," she says quietly, lets her finger tangle around a tendril of his hair, "That's a lie."

"Never can tell with you," he smiles, sparing her a quick glance. "So what's the truth?" 

She thinks back, them in a stolen car on the way to Jersey with all hell breaking loose, and grins to herself, says "The truth is a matter of circum—"

"Natasha," he says in that deep roaring way that makes her blood prickle and her gut feel warm with want. 

Almost immediately, she says, _"I_ didn't want to be alone anymore. I meant what I said, Rogers. I missed you."

He sighs, his body heaving beside hers, "We missed you too, Nat."

"Well. While I'm terribly fond of Sam," she says, tilting her head up to him, so they're looking at each other, "I meant _you,_ I missed you." She brushes her finger along his jaw and enjoys the brief flash of shock and surprise on his face. 

"Yeah?" He says, now very low.

She nods a few times quickly, swallows, makes her intention clear by looking at his mouth. 

He catches on and does the same, "Nat..." He says like a nervous man trying to buy himself time.

She's never been one for waiting, so she puts her bottle down and climbs over into his lap. Her arms come to rest on his shoulders, and he absently places his bottle down too, gaping at her in disbelief.

But his other hand is already on her waist; he's already clutching at her top, his powder blue eyes already blown black. 

"And I guess—" she starts then leans in to kiss him, quick and soft. His eyes stay closed when she pulls away, his lips parted dumbly, "—I should have made it here earlier because you're—"

"—all I've been thinking of." He finishes for her. 

She smiles at him, and he looks at her like it's the first time he has opened his eyes, and the world is all anew and bright, and she made it that way. 

His hand comes up behind her head and pulls her close, "God, I've missed you." He tells her now with conviction tenfold and then kisses her bruisingly hard, open-mouthed, arm effortlessly circling her waist.

She holds him close, reveling in it, finding what she came for; it's the affirmation she's been after. He tastes different now, though, as if they'd only been kids back in D.C and they knew nothing when she planted one on him in the mall. 

Steve breaks away with a low groan, nosing down her neck, pulling his knees up, so she's cradled in his lap, in his arms. 

"I've wanted this." His mouth is wet against her, clavicle, "I've wanted you for so long." 

"Stop talking then, and do something about it, Rogers," she says barely composed, voice ragged to her own ears. 

And this time when they kiss it's something wild and ravenous, their hands not fast enough to expose the skin beneath what now seems like too many layers of clothing. 

She starts breathing faster, doesn't care where her inhibitions go when Steve's tongue drags up her throat, and he bites down without warning. 

"Steve…" is all she manages, finally sliding her fingers into his mop of hair, urging him to touch. The real kicker comes when his hands sweep up her sides and cup her breasts. His hands are too large, and it's perfect the way she's so easily enveloped by his size when he holds her. 

He's careful, though, but she doesn't want careful. Not tonight. She wants to be taken apart ruthlessly by him.

So, she tightens her fist in his hair and raises herself to her knees, still straddled over him. With a stinging tug, she tilts his head up to face her.

"Steve," she says, and he blinks slowly, lazily, "I'm gonna need more. Harder." her voice is so low that Steve makes a deep sound in the back of his throat. 

He brings two fingers up and traces them over her parted lips, she stutters for a moment at the friction, and then he pushes them inside and tells her, "Suck." 

It's her turn to make involuntary throat noises, but she obliges and wets him up, hoping he's going to do what she thinks he will, pushing down her sweats just in case. And she's delighted when his other hand comes to help her then cups her ass with a tight squeeze. 

"Steve…" she moans when he withdraws the fingers from her mouth. 

"Natasha," he replies sternly, and pries his head out of her hold with a quick shake. 

All she can do is shiver when he lowers that hand and heads south with it. And when he touches her, she gives way like butter for a hot knife. She grips his neck and breathes through the onslaught of pleasure and need that rushes through her veins, gives her mouth something to do by kissing him again.

He ducks his head and mumbles something inaudible as he works his fingers between her folds, massaging around, and against her leg, she can feel him hard and waiting—patient as ever. 

And she would have reached down and provided some relief but then his fingers slip inside her and starts moving, and his thumb presses down on her clit, and she sucks in a sharp breath.

"You okay?" he asks, pauses briefly before she nods, and she thinks he might drive entirely insane tonight because then he makes this appreciative sound when he feels her growing wet.

"God, Steve," she starts, tipping her head back, just focusing on his fingers, how her body starts to move in rhythm with his hand. 

The music channel in Barnes and Wilson's room suddenly turns a little louder through the walls.

Steve's hand cups around the back of her neck, and he says, "Tasha.." then kisses her again when she looks down, and when he pulls away, "Come on," gently tugging at her sweats that are still stretched around her thighs. 

She quickly shuffles out of them, empty now that his fingers are gone, and watches him unbuckle his belt and shrug his pants off with a rushing fervor she's only ever witnessed in Steve Rogers on the battlefield. Swift, hard movements, heat pooling in his eyes like when he's about to throw himself into something with reckless abandon. 

"This won't do," she says, tugging up at the hem of his white t-shirt. He mirrors her devilish grin and lets her pull it over his head. 

And then it's just… all of that. All of which the world never gets to see, the endless lines and sinew and smooth strength of him. She does nothing about her open, unashamed admiration. He might be the world's greatest soldier, but that quickly gives way to a blushing, chuckling mess when he's sitting there almost naked with her staring him down. 

"Well??" he chides, pink-cheeked, gesturing to her own top that is still on.

She smirks, slowly drawing the straps over her arms and pulling it down below her breasts. 

And if he was pink before…

In a haze, he reaches forward and cups his hands over her naked breasts this time, his thumbs softly brushing over her nipples, and then as if he hadn't just blushed about being naked, he pulls her forward and positions her over his lap again. Close to his body with not an inch to spare. 

She can feel his dick press against her ass, she feels the quick thud of his heart, and it's just a split second of impatience before he wraps his arm around her waist and lowers her down on him.

He curses and breathes, squeezing her hips, and she's no better. Her hands are in his hair again, and she can't help but start moving as he slides inside. Despite the stretch, he bottoms out and then takes a deep, shocking breath, looking up at her as he guides her into a rhythm.

They find the right pace real quick, somewhere between slow and fast, leisurely enough to feel every goddamn drag of his thickness in her but kind of rushed, so they build up a sweat. 

He lifts her ass and pulls down hard, so she starts bouncing a little, steadies herself on his shoulders. 

"God, sweetheart," he mumbles, almost reverently looking down at her body, at how she moves, his hands sweeping long strokes up her sides and over her breasts then back down. 

And there's something wildly hot about Captain America calling her some sickly sweet nickname, something deeply adoring, something that speaks right to the part of her that just wants to be treasured. 

So she says, "Say that again," 

He looks up at her with an amused glint in his eyes, "What? Sweetheart?" 

Maybe it's just because he says it, maybe it's his voice so laden with want for her, but it's making her go warm deep down in her gut—a familiar tingling pressure. 

She moves faster now, holding him closer, his hands gripped around her waist, growing breathless, and she moans pitifully, probably louder than Barnes' music next door. 

And she doesn't give a damn. 

"That's it, honey," he says, quirking up an eyebrow at her melting reaction, then throws a little of 1940's Brooklyn into his voice, "sweet darlin'," and his thumb starts circling her clit. 

She laughs, breathlessly fond, "God, I missed you." Her hand cups his bearded face, "I missed you."

He's smiling up at her when she comes, and it's with a shudder and a soft grunt and Steve sitting up to kiss her throat, whispering against her skin. 

She still feels him pulsing inside her, so she keeps going and tells him, "Come on, Steve. For me." Only a couple more thrusts, and he gives a sharp gasp and buries his face in her neck, faintly moaning through it, hugging her impossibly close. 

For all his strength and bulk, he becomes fragile when she wraps her arms around his shoulders and kisses his forehead as they sit there in the euphoric afterglow of it. She knows now how he manages to make himself so small to the world sometimes. It's an inside thing; it's a question of vulnerability. 

And finally wrapped in his embrace, she finds herself exactly where she was meant to be all along.  **  
**

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are always appreciated!   
> thanks for reading :)


End file.
